Marbled Red Tile
by Zelly
Summary: (TEASER)Crawford returns from a trip to the States with some extra baggage: an asylum escapee. Something to be regarded as dangerous instead of having emotions. But things change when Nagi somehow finds his way into the strange boy's battered heart...


Marbled Red Tile  
(Prologue/Teaser)  
by Zelly 

**Rating:** R (may be changed to NC-17 though, I haven't decided yet)  
**Archive:** Go ahead. ^_^};; But please tell me first!   
**Disclaimer:** Weiß Kreuz and all characters are © Takehito Koyasu and whoever else. No profit is being made from this. Though if they were mine, I assure you, I would have a certain silver-haired sexy psychopath tied to my bed nonstop. Then nothing would EVER get written. ;_;  
**Author Note:** This is something that's been running in my head for a while now. Then again, most of my fics are like that. Then I get one part out and hit writer's block. Sigh...X_x But anyway. This takes place a couple years or so before the series, and I apologize if anything's inaccurate, but I'd like to think that it's not AU. The only thing this fic is AU to is the rest of my fics (though none of them are written in the same timeline anyway). Anyway, this bit here is just a characterization piece, or something, even though it does tie into the fic. Does that make sense? No. Anyway, for the whole fic, expect shitloads of alternating angst and sap, self-mutilation, violence, romance, maybe OOCness (I say that all the time though, I'm stupid ;_;) and possibly sex (though I haven't decided if I'll write any full-out lemons or not).  
Please review! I love getting feedback. However, I will NOT tolerate flames or "constructive criticism". If you see any grammatical or spelling mistakes then please by all means point them out, but I honestly don't give a shit if you think my writing sucks or that you don't like this pairing or whatever. If you don't like it then don't READ the damn thing.  
Oh, and I cuss a lot. Sorry. XP

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

So easyjust like slicing through butter.

Well, not exactly like slicing butter. It was slightly more tough than butter, not harder just tougher, and there was the annoying resistance of serated edges scraping roughly against the bone underneath.

He twitched as dark crimson began trickling out of the fresh cuts on his wrist; the drops sliding against his skin tickled. He watched, bemused, as they splashed onto the pristine white tile floor. The steady drip was practically hypnotic. The way the deep red contrasted with the blinding white ivory was beautiful. Blood was always beautiful. He never understood the ones who couldn't stomach or even stay conscious at the sight of blood. It was beautiful.

Roses were red, weren't they? And rubies? People loved pretty things like roses and rubies. They were red. That's all blood really wasjust liquid red. Liquid roses. Liquid red silk.

He was running out of room on his left wrist, so he switched the knife to his other hand and attacked his right. Despite his immense skill, he was not ambidextrous, and it was a bit more clumsy. But it didn't matter. It was the exact same motion. Just drawing the knife back and forth, horizontally not vertically, because that would be bad. Cutting vertically could be fatal. He was cutting just to bleed. Just to bleed, not to die. Back and forth. Back and forth. Just like drawing a bow across the strings of a violin.

Something went wrong.

The knife fell from his fingers, splashing into the small puddles of red silk as it clattered onto the floor. A strange feeling, something sharp and powerful and hot but utterly foreign, shot its way from every newly opened gash in his flesh to his spine. It was not a good feeling, not at all, and it was intensified by the fact that he had no idea whatsoever what it WAS.

He didn't remember when he dropped to the floor, but he suddenly found himself hunched over. The beautiful red rubies on the floor were smeared now, making the floor look like some kind of strange red and white marble pattern. It was still beautiful. He could feel the sticky liquid seeping in through his clothes where he crouched in it. He didn't care about the blood, though. He wanted the feeling to disappear. Why wasn't it disappearing? It was laughing at him, taunting him. Like a punishment. This was a punishment. It had to have been! But for what?  



End file.
